Can't sing it's praises enough. Dark underbelly of The American Dream... from a woman's perspective.
I've always listened to it and felt it was memoirs of like... a much older, lonely and jaded, burned out Jackie Onassis type. I always picture Lana sitting there alone.... looking at life through a haze of antidepressants and dark sunglasses, glass of straight vodka in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She's looking out the window watching other people's children playing... and thinking back... thinking...
I wanted to put the songs in a loose chronological order, but I never did because although it tells a story (IMO), it ruins the epic pace of the album as it transitions from song to song.
But anyway, yeah. Love this album. Perfect companion piece to St. Vincent's Modern Post Traumatic Surburban Housewife Angst. lol
I only listen to this album when I want to sulk around, though. The title track and overall mood makes me think of my hard living, death wish having, sickle cell suffering ex-girlfriend and all those hospital stays and close calls with death. Damn near breaks me up every time.